


Pulse

by Cyrelia_J



Series: Tumblr Drabbles [13]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Dark, Dubious Consent, M/M, Pre-Canon, Sexual Content, Somnophilia, Stream of Consciousness, Trippy, Twisted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-06-27 14:48:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15687570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cyrelia_J/pseuds/Cyrelia_J
Summary: PWP Kelas Parmak, the Obsidian Order's own death dealing doctor is a deep sleeper. That's not all that he is."There are only two people who are permitted in Parmak’s room: Elim Garak and Pythas Lok. Parmak never knows who it is that enters. He sleeps too soundly to be easily woken.But he always knows who it is when they enter him."





	Pulse

**Author's Note:**

> This wasn't originally going to be so freaky but eh, I figured why not. Just another random Tumblr idea and I thought, why does past Parmak always have to be so innocent? ;)

There are only two people who are able permitted in Parmak’s room: Elim Garak and Pythas Lok. Parmak never knows who it is that enters. He sleeps too soundly to be easily woken. 

 

But he always knows who it is when they enter him.

 

Parmak dreams vividly of fingers slowly working into his slit, he dreams of his  _ ajan _ getting warm, of his _ prUt _ starting to ache and throb, confined,  _ painful- _ those fingers thick, pushing him open, forcing him to evert, pressing, pressing until his thighs rub together, until they clench and his body twists in the sheets and he comes half awake with his legs falling open, knees to the sides, his blurry vision seeing a swirl of ceiling patterns as he slips between consciousness and that beautiful dream where those fingers slide in deeper, harder, followed by a mouth, a tongue, slurping, sucking the tip of his  _ prUt, _ forcing him open wider, wider until he comes hard, spilling a warm waterfall down that dark cavern, inner walls so slick and quivering in the aftershocks that it makes the entry of the thick fat rod into him a smooth motion spread, spreading until scales are stretched to the limit around those rough ridges and a soft chant of his name hissed like some old Oralian ritual full of fire and heat, the heavy weight burying him buried in him until it pulses hot inside so hard that it forces the invader back out again. Parmak always falls back asleep. 

 

That’s Garak.

 

Parmak dreams of the cold steppe of home most nights, dreaming of the thermal tents, the wind still at night as it isn't in the day, interspersed with the rush of the snow cicas with their hissing mating calls and the soft sounds of others coupling in the night's depths. Some nights those heavy breaths that he hears in his dreams grow louder with a weight settling down behind him, the heat of breath to the back of his neck, heating his scales and the sensitive ridges of his spine with long fingers on his thigh moving it up lifting the dead weight like the touch of a cloud or the first gentle powder of snow angling and… and he feels a long deep slide along his  _ ajan _ and his body is… always ready, always slick over the intruder as it slides into him deep deep, drawn in so deep it feels like one endless push in bottoming out with a soft curse, a dig of fingers to his hip bone further, further his leg shifting wider, his body rocking back and forth with the wind that he hears, arms around him, squeezing his chest, constricting, tight, teeth on his neck, his shoulder, a trickle tickling down from those punctures, his body pulled into the other’s as the other pushes _pushes_ into him and releases without another sound, a wriggle in his stomach that makes his gasp when it finally ceases. Parmak never truly wakes.

 

That’s Lok.

 

He feels them both the next morning, after he’s woken, after he bathes, their slick still slipping out of him as he sits on the wooden stool and runs hands over his body with the precious water. Parmaks hands linger over his chest, sometimes his thighs rubbing together with that bodily memory. Sometimes he squeezes his nipples until he feels more of them dribble out onto the seat intermingled with his own wet heat. Sometimes, he lets his fingers tease his sex, tease the sensitive walls of his  _ ajan _ to contract and push more of it out, bringing his them back to his mouth to greedily slurp every drop that he can. Sometimes he’ll evert, squeezing the base of his  _ prUt _ , fucking up into his palm, feeling the soaking pool beneath him rock bounce, wanting,  _ needing _ , half sobbing as he spills into his hand. He licks that off too.

 

He still feels them after he bathes. They come so hard and so deep in him it takes half the day to work out, his steps a stick of his inner thighs together until lunch comes and his every move a reminder of being filled and fucked and his hands on the test tube tremble, stroking the smooth glass like a lover, a caress of his thumb making his eyes unfocus and haze out with every memory leaving its impression, each lingering spurt of seed between his legs, each scenting of the air consuming him until he has to set it down and shut his eyes and breathe… breathe… until he can concentrate again on the serum - the pretty vial of poison - that he’s supposed to be synthesizing.

 

They all smell him. They all scent the air around him, that musk hanging thick, a taste on the tongue coating it sensual, lusty, fertile and ready, and he carries it proudly like a cloak around his stooped and twisted shoulders.

 

He smiles for them prettily - Tain’s brilliant doctor, The Order’s Angel of Death, meeting their eyes with a dart of his tongue and a tilt of his white head, pushing spectacles up speculatively. They either want him, or want him dead- the Nokarran whore shaman from the north. But they don't dare.

 

There are only two men permitted in his room.


End file.
